Slip In Time (One Shots)
by vlora
Summary: A collection of short Beth and Daryl drabbles. Bethyl. Primarily S4, with a disjointed timeline. Treat each as an individual story snippet.
1. What You Know

Beth couldn't tell what month it was. She thought late summer, to autumn, for the heat was dissipating and the leaves were crinkling. But it could be her imagination — it wasn't winter. That much she knew. It's not too important, really, except that it shifted the daylight hours about.

That isn't her focus right now. Beth didn't have the luxury of focusing on anything but the now. No time for semantics, for details that she couldn't hope to discover without some help from — who? Who decided what day it was, what month it was? Who had first decided it? Beth had never thought of it before, but she wish she had. She may never know now. The girl stepped into the lounge, taking to the once-plush couch. It had marks and tears down the cushions, by looters looking for hidden wealth.

They'd finished clearing the house, from attic to basement. It wasn't very secure, with two walls ready to give out in the back. But it'd do for now. That's all they needed, for now. It was just herself and Daryl, like it had been for the past week. There hadn't been signs of the others. Of anyone, really. They were alone. Her mind would sometimes skid back to the people she had seen by the tracks, the confirmed deaths.

Heavy footsteps sounded towards the lounge. He walked like a hunter in the forests, and a baby elephant everywhere else. She knew she could relax now. Daryl had finished his final round. He'd hammered up some sheets of wood along the broken doors, but they were to slow rather than stop walkers. He had tried, at least..

"S'clear."

"I know." Beth yawned. She had her hands folded in her lap. Were it a year ago, when the couch had been clean, her hair straight, her clothes freshly pressed, she may have looked the part. It was a sweet home, with family pictures still lining the walls. Some of the mother in them were defaced, with breasts and things haloing her head, in a degrading fashion. The husband and two girls received eye patches and scorch marks.

Daryl knocked one down, lip sneered. He probably didn't know Beth was watching him.

"Now what?"

"Sleep. Eat. Shit."

Beth made a face, somewhere between amused and disgusted by his frankness. Her hands were now tucked under her thighs as she admired the lounge. It was quaint, with elegant furniture. The year hadn't been kind to it, though. Dust covered almost every surface, along with bloodstains and mucky footprints. All old, all worn. Daryl had assured her of that.

While Beth picked up a novel that had been sitting on the table beside her, Daryl continued to circle. He marched around the room, as she could see him moving. She was flicking through the pages, reminding herself of words she'd had no use for. Fancy ones, that got you a better mark in English, and ruined your work in Science. She tutted at the torn out pages, but understood. Some things were more important in these sorts of situations. A book could be desecrated, for the sake of a fire and some light.

Daryl stopped, which made Beth look up. He was standing by the shattered window. She nervously watched him before letting her attention slip back to the book in hand, taking in nothing except the brief reverie away from her thoughts. There was a distant snap, an earthy crackle of a stalk being broken. It went on for a few minutes. Maybe he'd found some herbs or —

"'Ey."

Beth sighed through her nose, looking up once more. She didn't have much time to react, not before rough fingers took to her chin and tilted her head gently this way and that. Words failed to pass over her lips, though her eyes were going wider by the second. Then she was let go, though her eyes were still set on Daryl. He'd been standing before her, staring intently between her eyes and hair.

"What Daryl?"

"S'what I thought."

"What?" Beth impatiently repeated, all nerves and concern. It wasn't wholly surprising he'd taken her chin between his fingers, but why was the worry. Usually he was checking for bites, bug and otherwise. What had he seen? Her fingers nervously darted to her throat, then to the weight that set upon her ear. She had thought it was her hair had shifted with the turning. But there was something else there, perched against her ear.

"Daryl, what did you put in my hair!" Beth let out a squeak of concern, trying to pull whatever it was out of her hair. When flowers fell onto her lap she let out a confused laugh, looking between him and the array of flowers.

"Y'act like I never do anythin' nice — "

"You don't!"

"I just did."

Beth's eyes were practically screaming. He'd pulled off a bunch of flowers and — what? Tucked them against her ear. She turned red from her hairline to chest, lips screwed up tightly together. "I was scared you'd put — bugs — or — " Beth struggled to find words, trying to justify her worry.

Daryl rolled his eyes, mumbling about never doing anything nice for her again. He moved away again, playing at the window. He was trying to close it, for what little good that would do them. The glass had been taken out of it, smashed or otherwise. She continued to watch him, grumbling and smacking at the wooden frame.

Beth felt awful.

"What did you think?"

"Huh?"

"You said… It was what you thought." Beth was gently playing with the flowers, trying to fix the damage she had inflicted upon them. She had overreacted, and she felt so silly for it.

Daryl lingered by the window sill, giving it a few more flat-palmed hits. A mumbled 'dunno' came from him, matched by a roll of his shoulders. He hadn't turned back to her, and she noticed how he'd hunched, how he'd pulled away. She had pulled apart a sweet gesture by him, a silly something he'd likely done to make her feel better.

"No, no mumblin'. I hate when you mumble." Beth scooped up the flowers, trying to place them into her hair once more. It was something to do while she waited for his answer. She managed to work the frayed ends into her hair, and was using a mirror from her bag to examine it. She had to smile, the weeds and daisies all mixed together like they used to, back at her ranch.

Daryl turned back, only briefly looking at her. "You're that kinda girl — t'one with the flowers in her hair all spring. Not many of them left."

Beth hoped she smiled, even as her attention dropped to her lap and lips curled downward. "I guess not, hmm." She flicked a few of the remaining petals and pollen off her lap, not sure what else to say. Was it a good thing, that he saw her like that? Not as a fighter, like Maggie or Michonne, or a survivor, like Carol? She was a girl with flowers in her hair, and a smile on her face.

"Ain't a bad thing. S'who you are."

Beth smiled this time, not wanting to spoil the moment. In her attempts to spare his shy nature, she missed the smile he sent her way. It was better that way. Girls with flowers in their hair didn't slum with shit like him. That was the thought that spurred him to do a second, third, fourth search of the house. Because maybe, if he could keep her safe, if he could protect her, he might be worthy of her.

All the while Beth read the book with torn out pages and a cracked spine.

A/N: Written for the prompt; Send me a ✿ and my muse will react to your muse putting a flower in their hair. I was going to be 'done' with this about five times over, but it kept getting longer. It's just Beth and Daryl, clearing a house and relaxing.


	2. Sleep For Now

**A/N:** Anon message/prompt: "Hey, Beth, we-" Daryl stopped talking as he stepped into the room and found her curled up asleep on the threadbare feather couch. He sighed and stooped to pull the thin, dirty wool blanket from his trashbag on the floor. Spreading it over the girl to keep her warm, he paused at the sight of his spare shirt clutched in her arms. He reached out, brushing a strand of hair back from her cheek before pulling his hand back, and moving to keep watch from a spot on the floor.

...

Beth was an inelegant sleeper. There were no birds twittering round her quietly, nor storybook mice to truss up her sheets. Her lip and cheek were caught sliding down the cushion, her hair a mess, and the softest of snores rattling through her nose. This hadn't been her intention. While Daryl had been out securing the perimeter, she had been folding clothes. She hated how he stuffed everything in his bag with no folding, nor fixing. So she thought she'd do something nice for him, and fold it. An attempt at normality, in a world that had none.

That's when she'd sat down, fussing over stains and buttons. There was nothing to be done about it, and she didn't really try to fix it. She merely tutted her tongue, wishing they were back at the prison. It'd been days since she'd slept on something soft. Beth decided to test the couch properly, now on her side.

Beth was out like a light, his shirt clutched in hand. It wasn't the first time she'd clung to a shirt like it was giving her life. The habit had started back at her farmhouse, when Jimmy had to sleep downstairs. She had his football jersey, the one with a hole in the shoulder. That seemed so long ago now, and it was long since burned.

Everything burned in their wake, but she never stopped feeling cold. It had happened with the farmhouse, and had happened again with the prison. She had faith still, and knew that the fire was cleansing. Even if the world looked like the epitome of Hell, with walkers roaming, spiked traps and fire, there was goodness.

There was warmth. From someone close, from someone real, from someone who cared. It wasn't Maggie, or Hershel, or even Carol (or Lori). It was a man who had used his hand for gutting squirrels to eat, and smashing walkers heads in. All in the pursuit of survival, and in the pursuit of more. Hopefully, of more.

Idly, still in her slumber, she leaned into the brief hand at her cheek, lips ghosting a smile. There was no blind faith in her. There was determination, there was a desire to not only survive, but thrive. With Daryl, she at least had one person left surviving for, and for living with.

All this for a stained, worn shirt that smelled like Daryl.


End file.
